


a rose beyond the snow

by astarisms



Category: The Daevabad Trilogy - S. A. Chakraborty
Genre: 1400 years ago, Alternative Universe — Past Setting, Angst and Romance, Bodyguard Romance, Empire of gold spoilers, F/M, M/M, Slow Burn, THIS ENTIRE FIC IS MASSIVE EMPIRE OF GOLD SPOILERS YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED, archive warnings will probably be updated later as well, because they will be a significant part of this but not until later, i was going to include the qahtanis in the character list, it's basically a look at what the series would have been like if nahri was a nahid in dara's time, so i'll keep them out for now and add them in when they become relevant, so prepare for that, the first part of this is going to focus on dara and nahri and it'll grow bigger and bigger as we go
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-29
Updated: 2021-02-25
Packaged: 2021-03-05 23:13:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25583428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/astarisms/pseuds/astarisms
Summary: 436 A.D.Daevabad.She has never been one for following rules.
Relationships: Darayavahoush e-Afsin/Nahri e-Nahid, Jamshid e-Pramukh/Muntadhir al Qahtani, but not until later - Relationship
Comments: 31
Kudos: 45





	1. Prologue

Banu Manizheh e-Nahid cuts a striking figure in her ceremonial gown and chador, though they are out of place in the hospital office, much more suited to the gilded throne room or the sacred Temple chambers. Though the hospital is no less impressive an architectural feat, the atmosphere is one that demands simplicity, a far cry from the finely spun and embroidered dress the Banu Nahida is currently attired in. 

She runs her fingers lightly along the carved surface of the desk at the center of the room, before coming to stand behind it to face him. Though the office is spacious, it doesn’t feel large enough to contain her.

“Artash e-Afshin,” she says coolly, by way of a greeting. He feels her appraisal of him, even with his eyes on the ground. “Rise.”

“Banu Nahida. May the fires burn brightly for you.” He pushes off his knees to stand before her, pressing his fingertips together and then folding his arms behind his back. Manizheh’s gaze is calculating in the way of most Nahids as she murmurs the appropriate response. It’s a look that is familiar, but one that has turned his heated blood to ice as of late. 

In the past few years, that look has never meant anything good for him or any of his fellows. 

“I would like to discuss a rather… delicate matter with you, and I would ask that it be handled with the utmost discretion.” Though it was phrased as a request, there was no mistaking a direct order from a Nahid. 

Artash inclines his head. 

“Of course, Banu Nahida.”

Though he cannot see her mouth, the wispy fabric of her chador shifts ever so slightly with the movement beneath it. He can imagine her smile, as sharp and as cold as her obsidian eyes. 

“I have need of your son.” Artash struggles not to let the shock play across his face, to remain impassive and to keep his heartbeat steady. It is a skill that has not come without difficulty, but one that is entirely necessary when dealing with his leaders. 

“My son?” he repeats, trying to keep the hollowness from his voice. It takes everything to not let his fear manifest in a way that his Banu Nahida would be able to pick up on, though it is so potent it nearly overwhelms him. 

“Yes,” Manizheh says simply, the full weight of her attention on him. “You see, my niece is becoming quite the handful. I need your son to watch over her.” 

Artash blinks in surprise, some of the tension leaving him at the simplicity of the task, though he remains confused.

“Banu Golbahar?” Manizheh only inclines her head in confirmation. “Forgive me, my lady, but doesn’t she already have a guard? One much more qualified for such a duty, at that; my son is still years away from his first quarter century, not yet of age to take assignments.”

“I am well aware,” she responds silkily, clasping her hands before her. Artash has the vague prickling sensation that tells him he is in more danger now than he was seconds ago, though Manizheh has made no move to threaten him, nor has her countenance changed. “I don’t need anything so official as a guard, however. Just someone to keep an eye on her and perhaps to… give her wayward thoughts a push in the right direction.”

“May I ask why you believe my son is the best one for this task, Banu Nahida?” Manizheh’s chador shifts again, subtly but enough that he can imagine the tight-lipped smile beneath it. 

“Golbahar has been escaping her guard lately and visiting the Grand Bazaar, unchaperoned. She is young, easily influenced and vulnerable. Meanwhile, Darayavahoush is a prodigy — talented, loyal, and close enough in age to Golbahar that it won’t raise too many eyebrows if they start spending time together. I need someone to keep an eye on her, and he is exactly what I require.” She pauses, letting the words sink in, both persuasive and threatening in the way her family excels at. “It is my sincere hope that you agree, Afshin.”

Artash’s brows draw down low over his eyes. He does not like that Dara has captured the Nahids’ attention so readily. He does not like what is being asked — demanded, because his years have taught him better than to believe any Nahid request is only that — of him. Allowing an Afshin minor to take on Nahid assignments, even something as simple as a shadow for an unruly Nahid child, would surely set a dangerous precedent. 

But he knows there is no true choice in this matter, though Manizheh makes a convincing show of giving him one. His hands curl into fists behind his back. 

_It could be worse_ , he thinks, remembering the fear that had overcome him initially, the way he had imagined a half dozen worse fates for his son. Shadowing a Nahid girl when she slipped her guard was an easy enough task, one he was confident Dara could handle, though he was loath to have to give him an assignment at all at his young age. His son should be focusing on his training still, spending his free time with his family and enjoying his youth with his peers, not babysitting wayward Nahid children.

But he does not dare voice as much.

“Of course, Banu Manizheh,” he replies instead, dipping his head. “I am sure Darayavahoush will be thrilled that you have entrusted the care of your niece to him.”

“Excellent,” she says. “He can begin as soon as tomorrow, if that suits the both of you?” 

Another illusion of choice. Artash nods.

“It is no trouble, my lady.”

Manizheh comes around the desk to stand before him, and he drops his eyes in deference as she draws closer. 

“I am grateful for your cooperation. Truly, I would not ask this of you if I believed there were any other way to help my niece that didn’t crush her spirit.” 

“It is my pleasure to ensure Banu Golbahar’s wellbeing and happiness both.”

“I am glad to hear it,” Manizheh murmurs. “You are dismissed, Afshin. Extend my gratitude to Darayavahoush, as well.”

He turns to leave, only to be stopped at the door by her voice.

“And I hope you will remember that this is a matter to be handled discreetly.”

He nods again with a “yes, Banu Nahida” and hurries from the room. He is unable to shake the dread that clings to him, nor the notion that he had just doomed his son to a fate much worse than he could imagine, despite his attempts to reassure himself that the assignment was a minor one that had little ramifications. 

His son would be fine. Dara would be _fine_.

Over and over, he repeats this to himself until at last, he begins to believe it.


	2. Chapter 1

Golbahar was not one for sneaking around. 

Not in the way of her peers, anyways. She had learned years ago that the best way to not get caught was only to pretend you weren’t doing anything suspicious. Creeping through the corridors like a common thief was the best way to ensure that someone spotted her and threw her in extra lessons in a tired attempt to keep her out of trouble. 

But she was not a common thief, she was royalty—and if she simply strolled through the hallways, kissing her brother’s cheek and smiling at servants and bidding a good morning to her aunt, no one suspected anything. Oftentimes she made it into the Grand Bazaar without being stopped once along the way. If there were an Afshin on duty, it was a different story, but there was probably something to be said about the training of their palace guards, with the ease an unaccompanied Nahid slipped out of their sights.

Really, they should have known better by now. 

Golbahar swiped a buttery pastry from the breakfast table, smiling at the few of her aunts and uncles and cousins that lingered in the dining hall, already making her way back out. It was an uncharacteristically warm morning in Daevabad, and she was eager to get out of the top layer of fine silks she wore that concealed the plainer clothes beneath. Spring in Daevabad rarely gave way to sunshine, instead favoring cloudy days and rain that was cold enough to be an affront to the very concept of the season.

“Golbahar,” her aunt’s voice stopped her in her tracks, and Golbahar glanced back. “Won’t you join us?”

“Of course, aunt, I would love to,” she said, already spinning ways to avoid doing just that, “but I am going to be late for my lessons. I woke up late, you see, and I—”

Manizheh waved her hand dismissively, the movement evolving into a gesture to sit. She glanced at Jamshid, on his mother’s other side, but he only shrugged, lifting his tea to his lips. She smothered a scowl in his direction. Though he was technically her cousin, after her parents’ deaths—freak accidents in her infancy, experimental magic gone awry—his mother had taken her in and raised her as her own. And though it had never felt right to refer to Manizheh as her mother, her and Jamshid had been brought up as siblings, and could see each other as nothing but.

“Lessons can wait,” Manizheh said. “How long has it been since you’ve broken fast with us?” Her tone was casual, almost inviting, and simultaneously cool enough that Golbahar felt a prick of dread. She hid it well, smiling and pulling up a chair.

“I’m sorry,” she said graciously. “I will try to make my presence at breakfast a non-occasion, from here on out.”

Jamshid snorted into his glass.

“Don’t bother. You know the dead don’t sleep as well as Gul,” he teased, and this time Golbahar didn’t bother hiding the nasty glare she sent his way. 

“Do you know how the dead sleep, dear brother? I could show you—”   
  
“Enough.”

Golbahar snapped her mouth shut, and Jamshid snickered, though he, too, straightened at the sharpness of his mother’s voice. Manizheh tapped her finger against the fragile glass held delicately in her hand, observing Golbahar with shrewd eyes. Golbahar felt herself straighten even further, though the rest of her remained steady. Her aunt often unnerved her with her intensity, and she’d learned earlier than most Nahid prodigies how to keep her inner workings calm, as to not give herself away.

Another reason she was so good at slipping away—most of her cousins around her age were only just learning how to control their heart rate and their respirations, both giving them away when they were caught lying or sneaking about. 

Golbahar had been doing so for years. Her deceptions were practically undetectable.

Her aunt’s gaze softened abruptly, into something caring and affectionate. Golbahar felt herself relaxing involuntarily at the familiarity of the look, the one she’d grown up with, even as unease prickled at her spine.

“You are growing into quite the young woman,” Manizheh said, reaching out with her free hand to tuck one of Golbahar’s unruly curls back into her shayla.

Though unsure if it was a compliment by the wording, Golbahar thanked her anyway. Manizheh smiled, though her next words made Golbahar freeze. 

“You are approaching a marriageable age now—oh, don’t look so stricken, you have years yet ahead of you before that time, but less than a decade until you reach majority now.”

“Still nine years. More than half my age,” Golbahar protested, unable to help herself. Manizheh clicked her tongue disapprovingly, and Golbahar felt herself shrivel under it, though she held her ground. She glanced at Jamshid beseechingly, all humor gone.

“Mama, I mean no disrespect, but Gul is right. She isn’t even close to her majority yet—”

Manizheh raised a hand, cutting him off instantly. 

“Am I so terrible that the two of you won’t even listen to what I have to say before arguing against it? Have I raised you so harshly that you think I have anything but your best interests in mind?”

Both of them dropped their gazes.

“No, mama,” Jamshid apologized, at the same moment Golbahar murmured, “no, aunt,” and Manizheh watched, the deep fondness swept from her expression, leaving her face unsettlingly blank, before it returned with an almost startling swiftness. 

“I have no marriage prospects for you, Golbahar, nor will I entertain any anytime soon. Rest easy, child,” she said, setting her glass down. Golbahar couldn’t help the relief that crashed through her, loosening her breath. “All I was going to say was that you are now coming into your maturity. The safeguards you had as a child are no longer in place.”

Golbahar felt her cheeks heat, both in embarrassment and in indignation.

“I know this—”

“And thus, as a woman of your rank and status, I am concerned with your safety.”

“My safety—?”   
  
“Which is why,” Manizheh continued, raising her voice slightly over Golbahar’s until she fell silent, “I have taken the liberty of giving you an Afshin.”

Jamshid choked. Golbahar blinked, staring at her aunt uncomprehendingly. 

“An Afshin, mama?” Jamshid asked after a long, uncomfortable silence. “Surely they have better things to do than to follow around a 16 year old?”

“Are you suggesting your cousin’s safety is not of the utmost importance?” Manizheh asked lightly, though there was an undercurrent to her voice that made him backtrack immediately. 

“Of course not,” he denied hastily, raising his palms, “only that… well, there is a war.”

“All the more reason to have her protected. Women and children are often the worst off in war, yet rarely are we counted amongst the casualties.” Jamshid opened his mouth to protest again, as Golbahar stared silently on, looking between him and Manizheh, a furrow between her brows. “Not that the war will reach Daevabad,” Manizheh said, cutting him off again, “and worry not, my loves. I am not pulling a seasoned Afshin from the ranks.”

Jamshid was silent now too, just as confused as Golbahar.

“There is a boy, barely older than Golbahar. Darayavahoush.”

“Artash’s son,” Jamshid said, recognition lining his voice, and Manizheh nodded, pleased.

“Yes. He is a prodigy, they say. Highly skilled with the bow, and nearly as impressive with just about any other weapon they can place in his hands.”

“But… a minor,” Jamshid hedged carefully. “Respectfully, mother, Afshin minors are not supposed to take assignments anymore than Nahid ones are supposed to concern themselves with marriage.” Golbahar caught a flicker of annoyance in her aunt’s eyes before she masked it.

“It is a simple enough task,” Manizheh said dismissively. “And a test, of sorts. It is good practice for the Afshins to have some experience in the field. If all goes well here, it might be something to implement more frequently.”

Golbahar watched the back and forth between the two of them remotely, as if she were disconnected from her own body. She was getting a bodyguard. No, she was getting a shadow. A  _ tail. _

It felt like a punishment. An Afshin, to track and report her every move? Had she finally been found out? A flicker of panic ignited in her chest before she smothered it, quickly enough that she hoped her aunt hadn’t noticed. 

She had spent years successfully evading the palace guards, the servants, her family, slipping out of the palace undetected and then back before they could truly begin to miss her. This  _ Darayavahoush _ , prodigy or not, would not be the one to put a stop to her escapes into the Grand Bazaar.

Regaining a bit of her confidence, Golbahar straightened, and spoke before Jamshid could offer more protests on her behalf.

“I think it’s a great idea,” she said, clearly surprising both her aunt and brother. “If you think doing this could give the Afshins necessary experience before going out into the field, then by all means. Shouldn’t we be doing everything we can to make sure they’re prepared?”

Manizheh had clearly been expecting a fight, but readily accepted Golbahar’s more agreeable behavior. Jamshid, behind her back, was clearly more skeptical of his sister’s easy concession. He had always known her better than his mother did. 

“It thrills me to have you see reason, Golbahar,” Manizheh said warmly, but in a way that made Golbahar feel as if she were being condescended to, as if she were usually unreasonable. She supposed she might have been, in her aunt’s eyes, though in her personal opinion she was one of the most reasonable members of her traditionally unyielding family. 

Golbahar smiled, and wiped the flaky crumbs from her hands, appetite gone.

“This will be good for you, Golbahar. You can go out into the city now with the… proper protection. I know how much you love the Grand Bazaar.” Golbahar went cold all over, the flames at her heart reduced to coals, but if Manizheh noticed, she didn’t show any sign of it.

She knew her aunt well enough to know that Manizheh never minced words, and they confirmed Golbahar’s suspicions immediately. If Manizheh knew where she was going, what else did she know?

Did she know about the Ayaanle merchants who told her fantastical stories of Ta Ntry? About the Geziri travellers and the Sahrayn nomads and the Tukharistani traders and the Agnivanshi pilgrims, all of whom had at some point or another taught her about life outside of Daevabad, beyond even Daevastana? Did she know about the tricks they’d taught her, that she could pick a lock as well as she could cure a man of a case of stones?

Did she know about the radical ideas they had taught her?

_ No, _ Golbahar thought abruptly. Manizheh may have figured out where she was going, but she hadn’t figured out what she was doing or with whom, even if she had her suspicions. That much, at least, she was confident about.

“When do I meet him?” she asked, glancing around the room, half expecting him to have materialized in the silent way the Afshins did. If she was going to have a shadow, she at least wanted to be able to assess the boy. How easy would it be to escape his guard? 

Barely older than her, Manizheh had said, with no experience beyond the training grounds.

If she had been able to slip the hordes of palace guards, there was little doubt in her mind that one Afshin boy would present her too much trouble. She might prove such a handful that this whole experiment fell through spectacularly.

“After his morning training, if all goes well,” Manizheh said. She gestured to the windows that spanned the length of the entire wall, the ones that overlooked the city and the lake and the mountains — painted over with pinks and golds when the sun rose — and also the courtyard where palace guards and Afshins sometimes trained together, if one chose to look down instead of out.

Curious despite herself, Golbahar rose from the table. Though Manizheh stayed seated, Jamshid followed her to the windows, where they gazed down at the soldiers engaged in practice spars. 

“I can try to talk to her again,” he offered quietly, but Golbahar shook her head. 

“Thank you,” she said, “but I can handle one boy.”

“Oh?” he said, the teasing edge returned to his voice. “Growing so quickly?” 

Golbahar’s cheeks pinked, and she shoved her elbow into his side. He grunted, and she smiled, satisfied. “You know that’s not what I meant. Which one is he?” 

But she had barely finished the question before her eyes caught on a blur of motion, a boy around her age shooting arrows from a silver bow — a true Afshin bow, not one of the practice ones trainees were given — at a speed her eyes couldn’t follow. 

Three arrows embedded themselves in the center of a target. Three more lodged in the adjacent target, and yet another round caught the head, chest, and groin of a third, all in the time it took her to blink. He paused, before lowering the bow, and an older man came up to clap him on the shoulder, beaming. The boy turned.

He was handsome, his long, dark hair tied back with leather. He smiled and bowed his head under what was unmistakably praise from his elder, proud but humble enough to not gloat before his peers.  _ Prodigy indeed, _ Golbahar thought.

“Darayavahoush e-Afshin,” Jamshid murmured beside her. “They say there has not been an Afshin more skilled with a bow in centuries.”

Golbahar swallowed, but refused to let herself be cowed by his skill. Wielding a weapon was one thing, but Golbahar could not be wielded, and this boy had little idea what he was getting himself into. She was already observing him, already finding ways to use what little she could glean from this performance against him.

And then, as if he felt their gazes on him, he glanced up, dark eyes catching hers through the glass.

She smiled, and he quickly dropped his head, a good Daeva man ashamed to have seen an unveiled woman, a Nahid no less. But he had seen her, had seen her smile, and it sent a little thrill through her. She was no ordinary Nahid girl, belonging as much to the streets of her city and its inhabitants as she did to its ruling family and their hospital.

And Golbahar always smiled at her marks.


	3. Chapter 3

The burst of uproarious laughter drew the attention of the other Daevas on the street, though a group of rowdy Daeva youth was hardly an uncommon occurrence, especially among Dara and his cousins after morning training—the promise of lunch only heightened the rush of energy and excitement that followed hours of relentless drills and sparring matches. 

“You looked like a fish, with the way you floundered when Firouz knocked you on your ass,” Bahadur—Dara’s senior by five years—crowed.

“I was this close to sounding the alarm for the first marid sighting in centuries,” Hamid chimed in, lifting his hand to show off the little space between his thumb and forefinger, prompting another fit of laughter. Javed, the source of the teasing, shook his head goodnaturedly, a relaxed grin tugging at the corners of his lips. Dara had always admired that trait of his, had looked up to him though Javed was only his elder by a year and a half, and had strived to adopt that easy-goingness for himself. 

“Big words for someone who lost his match with Dara in about three seconds,” he teased, prompting a round of exaggerated boos from the rest of the group.

“Not fair!”

“That does not count!”

“Low blow, Javed!”

Bahadur only laughed though, hooking an arm around Dara’s neck and pulling him into his side. Dara laughed, too, struggling half-heartedly to escape the hold his cousin had on him.

“Ah, but that is  _ Dara, _ ” Bahadur said, tightening his grip on him and rubbing his knuckles into his scalp, prompting a half-amused, half-indignant protest on Dara’s part. “That is hardly comparable—we all know he is the best among us. You lost to  _ Firouz. _ ”

Dara shoved, slipping out of Bahadur’s grasp and backing away quickly to avoid being caught again, though he could not hide his own grin, or the color that rose on his cheeks from his cousins’ praise. 

“You know, I do not think I appreciate that you are mocking Javed’s loss and yet somehow you still make it sound like an insult towards me,” Firouz complained, pushing his way to the front, his dark eyes crinkling at the corners with his effort to maintain his displeased frown. Hamid knocked shoulders with him, and without much more encouragement, the facade fell and all of them were laughing again. 

Their fun was interrupted by a tiny, shrill screech, and a blur of hair and color. Dara, still walking backwards down the street, facing his cousins, spun at the last moment, only barely catching himself from tumbling at the force that threw itself against his legs. 

“Daru!” his little sister cried, looking up at him with a gap-toothed smile. So excited to see him, one might have thought he had been gone for months instead of just a few hours, but he and Tamima were attached at the hip—or slightly below, given that she only came up to his hip—and she had always greeted him eagerly. He could not help the warmth that bloomed in his chest, or the grin that broke across his face as he bent to lift her into his arms.

His cousins behind him snickered, though Bahadur leaned around Dara to tug on one of her braids.

“What, no greeting for your favorite cousin?” he asked, pressing a hand dramatically to his heart, and Tamima giggled, stretching up to plant a kiss on his cheek, forcing Dara to shift his grip to accommodate her.

“I know some boys who will not be getting any lunch if they do not get washed up in the next five minutes,” a voice rose above their din from ahead of them, in one of the doorways. The boys all straightened quickly at the sight of Dara’s mother, arms crossed, a smudge of flour on her cheek.

Another lilting voice—one of his aunts—came from inside the house, amidst the chatter of all their gathered relatives, “Ah, Mehrnaz, will you not let them be? They are mighty warriors in training.”

“Warriors they may be, but I will not have sweaty, stinking barbarians at my table,” she replied, lifting an eyebrow pointedly at the boys in question as they filed past her with murmured, “yes, khale” and “yes, ammeh”s. Dara smiled at his mother as he passed, and her stern expression softened as she clucked her tongue teasingly, wrinkling her nose at him. “You are the sweatiest and stinkiest of them all. Put your sister down before she needs another bath, as well.” 

Dara did as told, setting Tamima on her feet and sending her off to play, but not before kissing both of her cheeks. 

“Where is Baba?” he asked as he slipped his dusty boots off, his eyes sweeping the room, near bursting with the rest of his family, in search of him. Some of his uncles were present, too, though he knew the ones who could make it for lunch would only just now be on their way back. His mother waved her hand dismissively, turning back towards the kitchen. It smelled amazing—buttery lentils, freshly baked bread with herbs, spiced rice, roasted vegetables, and the sugared, nutty scent of some kind of sweet. Dara pressed a hand over his grumbling stomach, following his mother back to the fire, hoping to sneak a bite of something.

“He is at the hospital. Banu Manizheh requested his presence this morning for something or the other. He will be here before we eat.” But as if she had sensed him behind her and his intentions, she lifted her wooden spoon in warning without turning her attention away from the pot she had returned to. “Darayavahoush, if you so much as think about putting your dirty hands near my food, I promise you the fires will be burning very brightly across the back of them before you succeed.”

With a sheepish grin, Dara rocked back on his heels, his hand dropping to his side. 

“Sorry, Amma.”

“Go wash up. Then we will see what we can do about that bottomless stomach of yours.” He bobbed his head in a nod, backing up a step and spinning on his heel to retrace his steps out of the kitchen. “And Dara?”

Glancing over his shoulder, it took him a second to process that she was holding a pastry out to him—by the looks of it, one left over from breakfast. Her sober demeanor faded into familiar laugh lines, the corners of her eyes creasing as she winked at him.

“Do not tell your cousins,” she said, lowering her voice a touch conspiratorially. He grinned, turning back to take it and pressing a kiss to her cheek. 

“Thank you, Amma!” he called over his shoulder as he rushed back out, stuffing half the pastry into his mouth.

“By the Creator, do not let your sister see, either, or so help me!” she yelled after him. He ate quickly, all but inhaling the flaky treat, trying not to choke on the crumbs, and then he dusted away any evidence of it off his person. With one last, quick once-over of himself, he made his way outside, into the spacious courtyard that all of the Afshin houses opened up into. His cousins had already stripped down to their waistcloths and converged at their family’s well in the center, the stone underfoot darkened with spilled water. 

Hamid was dripping wet and sputtering, sweeping his hair from his eyes as the others laughed. The emptied bucket was swinging from Firouz’s fingers, an eyebrow lifted in challenge. 

“Should I sound the alarm for the first marid sighting in centuries?” Javed asked mildly from the other side of the well, and Bahadur howled, clapping him on the back and doubling over. Firouz shot him a dirty look, though his eyes were dancing with mischief. 

“Laugh all you want at Hamid’s expense, but do not think I have forgotten what  _ you  _ said. You are next.” Bahadur stepped back, removing his hand from Javed’s shoulder and raising them in surrender. 

“Forgive me, cousin. I am sorry,” he said solemnly, hand over his heart. 

“Aye, sorry that you are both an embarrassment to our family name!” Hamid yelled, and lunged at Firouz, grappling for the bucket and soaking the other man through in the process. Bahadur and Javed glanced up as Dara approached, observing the scene with no small amount of amusement. Hamid was always itching for a fight, and was not above using inflammatory words to get one, even if he never meant them.

“Should we get involved?” Dara asked, looking between his elder cousins and the two rolling about on the ground. Bahadur waved a hand dismissively.

“You know how Hamid is.”

“But I want lunch,” he sighed, moving to stand beside the two of them and eyeing the entrance he had just emerged from—where the scent of his mother’s cooking still lingered—forlornly. He was starving. The session from that morning had been brutal, and though he had won his match, it hadn’t been nearly the easy victory his cousins made it out to be. Bahadur was taller than him, and had a sturdier build. While Dara was strong, Bahadur was stronger, and exceptional with swords. 

It had been difficult, to outmaneuver his cousin with a weapon he was comfortable enough with but deadlier in the other’s hands; his smaller size had proven useful though, had allowed him more speed and grace, and finally, arms near shaking with exhaustion, he had twisted and caught Bahadur’s sword at just the right angle, using the opening the move granted to kick him backwards. He went in with his khanjar, hooking the short dagger through the handle of Bahadur’s sword and yanking it towards him as his cousin fell, and then had put his own blade to his throat.

Bahadur had blinked, stunned from his spot on the ground, and then grinned as the onlookers began to cheer. Dara had barely believed it himself, until the other man looked pointedly at the weapon still pinning him. He dropped it, clasping his cousin’s hand and hauling him to his feet, and Bahadur had clapped him on the back when he was upright again, leaning in to congratulate him on a fight well fought.

And though the muscles in his arms were growing more sore from the exertion by the minute, he could not wait for their afternoon training, eager to be free of the confines of the city walls and riding in the plains that stretched along the Gozan. He was itching for a bow in his hands, and the chance for targets more challenging than the stationary stuffed sacks used on palace grounds.

Hamid and Firouz chose that moment to pick themselves up, Hamid looking significantly more cheerful now. Firouz shook his head, his own hair dripping now, and Bahadur looked between the two of them.

“Are we done?” he asked pointedly, as Javed stooped to pick up the bucket that had rolled to a stop at his feet in the tussle. He refastened it to the rope, and Dara, realizing he was still in his training clothes, stripped to his waistcloth like the rest of them. 

They washed quickly without further incident, ridding themselves of the sweat and dirt and grime that had accumulated in the long hours since sunrise, splashing each other and taking long gulps of the fresh water in between pulls. Firouz’s mother stepped into the courtyard, tsked at the mess goodnaturedly, and left five clean, dry tunics sitting by the door. They all rushed to dress, and tumbled back into the house, where Dara’s mother and aunts were finishing putting the food on the table. 

His mouth watered, his stomach rumbling at the sight of all the food laid out, the rest of their family trickling into the room from different parts of the house. He stayed back though, against the wall, waiting for the elders in his family to take their seats before he did. 

Tamima laughed from another room, and Dara looked over, trying to spot what had captured her attention. He stood a little straighter when he saw that it was their father, still in uniform, Tamima on his hip, babbling animatedly about something. 

Giving his youngest his nearly undivided attention, he lifted a hand in response to all the greetings he received, shifting his daughter higher on his hip. Dara’s mother turned, wooden spoon still in hand, and pointed it at her husband.

“You are late,” she said simply. Artash cast a look around the room, taking in the untouched, steaming piles of food and the people still settling onto their cushions. 

“On the contrary, dear wife, I would say I arrived right on time.”

She tutted, shaking her head. “Go wash and we will see if there is a spot for you left at the table or if you must eat with the children.”

His father set Tamima down, making his way through the room. He approached Dara, winking at him as he replied, “the children might prove to be more amicable than the adults.” Then, to him, “I heard you beat Bahadur today during your match.”

Dara flushed, aware of the weight of everyone’s attention on him, but raised his chin.

“Yes, Baba, I did.”

“Well done, my son.”

“ _ Artash _ .”

He clapped Dara on the shoulder then strode past him, and though Dara’s heart thrummed with his father’s praise, he could not help but notice that there was something off about him. His smile had not reached his eyes, and his approval felt lacking compared to the usual. He glanced over his shoulder, at his retreating back, and the high began to fade in the wake of the sinking feeling that he had done something wrong.

“Aye, do not hold that victory over my head for too long,” Bahadur teased from behind him, jostling him forward so they could find their own spots at the table. “I do not intend to let it go unchallenged, cousin.”

*

After they finished eating, Dara lingered to help clear the table, though almost as soon as the meal had been completed, his father had pulled his mother away. He could not hear them over the bustle of the rest of the family, but in the glances that he snuck at the two of them, he could tell it was not a happy conversation, his father’s brows creased in distress and his mother’s lips turned down in a frown as she gestured vigorously back at him. 

He raised his hands in a placating manner, and her frown deepened. 

“Dara,” one of his aunts said, across from him, her own arms full. She tipped her head towards the sink, where there were already several people on dish duty. “Come, let us finish getting this mess up. I believe we are all entitled to a nap after, no?”

With one last worried look at his parents, he nodded, filling his arms full of emptied dishes and following his aunt to deposit them. There was already someone drying the cleaned ones, so he took it upon himself to put them back where they belonged, even as he strained still to catch snippets of the conversation happening in the other room.

But he did not have to wonder for too long, because his mother bustled back in, looking harried but not quite as unhappy as she had only minutes ago. She caught his eye, and he hurried to her.

“What is it, Amma?” he asked, taking her hand. She smiled, bringing the other up to cover his, then lifted it to her lips to kiss his knuckles. She patted his hand, then released him.

“Your father would like to speak with you. It is best you do not leave him waiting. He is in the garden.” She ushered him away, and the sinking feeling in his gut intensified. They had been talking about  _ him _ ? What had he done that could have possibly put those expressions on their faces?

He racked his mind for anything, any wayward comment, any out-of-line action of his in the past week as he walked to the garden, but could come up with nothing. He knew not what to expect from this conversation, but he knew his parents were unhappy with whatever it was, and he did not like it.

His father was standing, in the center, turning his helm over in his hands.

“You wanted to speak with me?” Dara asked, standing at the edge of the grass, unsure of whether to venture in further. Artash turned, and smiled.

“Yes. Come, let me look at you. You are no worse for wear after your match against Bahadur?”

Dara shook his head, “no.” He touched his cheek, where the skin had split after Bahadur had gotten him with the hilt of his sword. “Nothing the Nahids could not fix, anyways.” Artash looked over him, his scrutinizing gaze resting on his cheekbone, as if he could see the remnants of a mark no longer there if he stared long enough. Such a stare had brought other men to their knees, Dara knew. His father was an intimidating man, but he had never been anything but patient and kind with his children, and used against him, it did little besides make him want to squirm like a child.

“Good. You are improving quickly. Your progress is quite unlike anything we have ever seen, even among the best in our history.” Dara straightened up a little more.

“Thank you, Abba,” he said sincerely. Artash’s smile slipped for a moment, and then it was back.

“It has not gone unnoticed. I spoke with Banu Manizheh this morning.” There was a heaviness to the words that Dara could not decipher, could not conflate with the other pieces of the puzzle. Banu Manizheh was revered as the most skilled healer since Anahid, one of the leading members of the Nahid Council. Was his father trying to say that he had spoken to her, about  _ him _ ? “She is most impressed with your skill, Dara.”

It felt as if the breath had been knocked from him. Dara struggled to keep his composure.

“ _ Banu Manizheh _ ?” 

Artash’s lips quirked in a small, amused smile. If the light did not reach his eyes this time, Dara was much too distracted now to notice.

“Yes. She has requested your assistance with a task very… personal to her.”

Dara felt faint. A Nahid,  _ Banu Manizheh _ , had noticed him? Wanted  _ his  _ help? But he was only a minor! He did not realize that he had voiced as much until Artash took his arm, steadying him. 

“Steady yourself. We are well aware, and it is what makes you so ideal for this assignment. Listen to me, Darayavahoush.” The command in his father’s voice shook him mostly free of whatever stupor had taken hold of him, his head clearing enough to concentrate. Artash waited until he met his eyes again. “Banu Manizheh’s niece, Golbahar—she is an unruly child. A year younger than you, if I am not mistaken. She slips her guard frequently, wandering the Grand Bazaar on her own. She is vulnerable, and impressionable, at her age… Banu Manizheh was hoping that you would be a safety net for her. Accompany her to the markets, make sure she is not speaking with any unsavory types, keep her out of trouble. It is simple.”

Simple. Yes, it all sounded very simple. Dara did not imagine it could be much different than when he was tasked with watching over his younger cousins. Artash gave him a shake.

“Dara. Do you think you can do this, for Banu Manizheh? For your Nahids?” 

It felt surreal, almost. Like he was wading through a dream. The appraisal of his skill by the most powerful and esteemed of their leaders, the trust in his abilities they must have had to allow this, to allow  _ him _ —an Afshin still a near decade away from majority—a task such as this, was a high he could not soon see himself coming down from. So potent was it, every misgiving and worry he had had prior fled his mind, along with the image of his parents’ worry. 

“Yes, Baba,” he said with conviction. “I can do it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> future chapters shouldn't overlap like this, I just really wanted to explore Dara's life prior to *waves hand* all his trauma <3


	4. Chapter 4

As it turned out, Golbahar did not meet the Afshin boy as planned that day. There had been a mild outbreak of feathers in the Agnivanshi quarter, and though it had been contained and all the victims were recovered or in the process of, Golbahar had taken to the hospital to assist her cousins and aunts and uncles deal with the influx of new patients, forfeiting her plans for mischief.

She had stayed to help so long that the sun had begun to set on their city, but she couldn’t find it in herself to be disappointed at length. The hospital provided just as much of a thrill as her stolen adventures, leaving her satisfied and fulfilled in a way little else could. 

Despite her aunt’s disapproval about most everything else about her character, none could deny that she was a skilled healer, promising potential that rivaled even Manizheh’s. Golbahar, as strange as it was, found comfort within the walls of the hospital and behind the doors of the palace infirmary. There was something reassuring about having a purpose, a place where she might belong amongst her family, united in healing all of their city’s inhabitants.

To save a life was a powerful thing, and Golbahar thrived in the knowledge that she was responsible for preventing the unnecessarily cruel possibility of those that might have been cut unduly short without her intervention. Though she was still training, and not allowed to lay hands on a patient without supervision—especially not the few of the more serious cases she had been permitted handling—she knew it was a heavy responsibility to bear, but one that weighed only as a warm cloak might around her shoulders.

So long as she kept up her training, and did her job correctly, she could hardly consider her Creator-given gift a burden. Not when it allowed her to help so many.

“Are you ready?” Jamshid asked from behind her, pulling Golbahar from her thoughts. She glanced back, eyeing the damp curls crowning his forehead, and wrinkled her nose at the stench of sweat and horses, pungent after spending the day surrounded by disinfectant. 

“You might have gone to the hammam rather than trek across the city to retrieve me,” she remarked, turning her nose up at him. “You need a bath much more than I need an escort.” 

Jamshid laughed, wrapping an arm around her shoulders and pulling her close against his side. “Ungrateful brat,” he chided teasingly above her indignant protests and complaints of his smell, “you’re one to talk after spending all day plucking out feathers.” He released her, reaching up to tug at a loose, wild curl. “Look, you even have some in your hair.”

“I do not.” Golbahar swatted his hand away, smoothing her hair back into place. Her fingers caught on a feather, and she paused. Her brother snorted, coughing into his hand to cover the sound, and she glared at him, quickly plucking it out and disposing of it with a quick flick of her wrist. “Say a word and you’ll be finding feathers in your caps for the foreseeable future,” she said pleasantly, and Jamshid grinned again. 

“Understood, Banu Nahida,” he replied solemnly, his tone at odds with his expression, and when Golbahar snuck another glance at him, she couldn’t help but laugh, shaking her head at him.

The walk back through the Geziri quarter was peaceful, Golbahar taking in the familiar streets as Jamshid questioned her about the epidemic—she had always admired their simple, sturdy buildings, so at odds with the grand, resplendent architecture her people favored. The setting sun washed the stone walls and towering minarets in pinks and oranges as the posts along the street lit with enchanted fire in preparation for the coming night. Daevabad always did seem a bit more magical on the cusp of darkness, she thought, whether entering it or leaving it behind, and she felt a little flutter in her chest at her love for her home.

It didn’t take long for the buzz of the Bazaar to be heard, and she glanced in the direction she knew it to be despite the fact that she couldn’t see it yet. One look at the sky told her that soon, the merchants would be packing up their wares and retiring for the night, but her desire to slip away one more time before she acquired her Afshin shadow grew with the din of the market. 

She reached out, tugging on her brother’s sleeve to pull him to a stop.

“Jhimu,” she said, and didn’t miss the way his eyes narrowed at the nickname he’d given himself for her when she was a child—when she never could get  _ Jamshid _ right, her untrained tongue twisting the syllables into  _ Jashmid— _ and one she used infrequently enough now that he was right to be suspicious, though she put on her best innocent face. 

“What?” 

“Do you smell that?” she asked slyly, cocking her head in the direction of the Bazaar. Truthfully, there were a lot of overlapping and clashing smells wafting from the street, not to mention the near overwhelming scent of roasting meat from inside the nearby Geziri households, but she rocked back on her heels, waiting, and sure enough recognition lit his eyes as he caught the whiff of sugar and saffron and fried dough—a favorite of them both. “What do you say to dessert in place of dinner?”

His gaze slid back to her, assessing, and he frowned.

“Have you eaten since you picked at breakfast this morning?”

Golbahar shrugged, glancing over her shoulder again. 

“I’ve been busy. And I want bamieh.”

Jamshid made a noise of exasperation, and when she looked back at him, his expression was caught somewhere between concern and exasperation. Her brother knew her too well, and was likely weighing the inability to tell her no with the knowledge that she was likely scheming behind the veneer of an empty stomach. In the end, he was much too good to tell his baby sister no after a long day, and changed course, heading instead for the Bazaar. Golbahar gave a little cheer, rushing after him, thrilled that that had worked. 

“You stay  _ close, _ ” he murmured when the backs of stalls and small, more permanent establishments came into view. “We are getting food in your stomach and going home. It’s late, and Amma will have my head if I don’t get you back before dark.”

It was hard not to scoff at that, but she bit it back, nodding instead. While she knew Jamshid truly felt that way, and that her aunt might indeed be upset if Golbahar was not back within palace walls by a respectable time, she very much doubted Manizheh would have Jamshid’s  _ anything _ . Though she made something of an effort to treat them equally and had raised her alongside Jamshid, Golbahar had never felt like Manizheh’s daughter. Though it might not have been apparent to anyone else, as miniscule as it was,  _ she  _ noticed the difference in the way Manizheh treated them.

She had never held it against her aunt. Theirs was a difficult situation, and she had wanted for nothing growing up—her birth parents aside. But freak accidents were tragically common amongst experimenting Nahids, her father included, and so it was not to be. 

It was not something that Golbahar allowed herself to linger upon, and shaking free from that train of thought, she grabbed Jamshid’s hand, pulling him through the dwindling crowd to the stall with the older Daeva woman selling the sweets. 

“May the fires burn brightly for you, grandmother,” she greeted cheerfully, and Berin’s eyes crinkled in happy recognition. 

“And for you, Banu Nahida,” she returned kindly, already cutting pieces of dough into the hot oil. Though Golbahar had mentioned it only as an excuse to get Jamshid to agree to taking a detour, her mouth watered now, her stomach grumbling. “Baga Nahid. You are out late.” It was the place of no common citizen to comment on the habit of their Nahids, but Berin had been stuffing the both of them with her sweets for as long as either of them could remember, and was afforded a certain leniency amongst the pair, so long as it was kept between the three of them.

“Ah, yes, Golbahar was assisting with the feathers outbreak. She did an excellent job, I hear,” Jamshid replied, and Golbahar’s eyes leapt up to his in surprise at the undercurrent of pride in his voice. “I simply came to see her home safely, and thought perhaps she deserved a reward for all of her hard work.” The teasing that crept into his words was not enough to dispel the warm feeling that had begun to spread in her chest, nor the prickle of unease she felt knowing she was planning on slipping away—she always did feel bad when it was Jamshid she was deceiving—but she did roll her eyes, nudging him in the side.

“Don’t make things up, this was my idea,” she protested, and he laughed as Berin scooped the pastries from the pot, letting the excess oil drip from them before dropping them in the syrup. 

“Is that so? I would say these are very well-earned then, yes?” the old woman asked with a smile as she bagged the treats with an efficiency and tidiness borne from years of practice. Jamshid pulled some coins free from his pocket, and slid them across the stall, but Berin clicked her tongue disapprovingly, waving him off. “You know that is not necessary. Keep your coin.”

“Nonsense, grandmother,” Jamshid said, pressing a hand to his heart. “You must let me pay. Otherwise I can hardly claim this is  _ my _ reward for the Banu Nahida’s hard work, can I?”

“You can’t do that anyways when it was  _ my idea _ ,” Golbahar muttered again from behind him, even as her fingers twitched towards the bag. But even as the scent made her stomach groan hungrily, her eyes slid between him and Berin, and she had been in this position enough times to know that they would be distracted arguing about payment for a good minute. She glanced up at the sky, noting the swift descent of the sun, and at the bag again.

_ Well _ , she thought, a bit forlornly,  _ sometimes sacrifices must be made. _

“I think I see my friend,” she said out loud, to no one, just to soothe the guilt over leaving Jamshid’s side without saying anything to him. And it was not entirely a lie. She could see the corner of the Geziri stall that was her destination in the distance if she stood on her toes, over the heads of bustling djinn, rushing to get home to a late dinner.

She slipped away, looking back briefly to make sure they were still embroiled in their debate, and then she disappeared into the crowd, letting it carry her. She wondered if the man would even be there; the stall full of miscellaneous wares was often run by his cousin in his absence, when he was out travelling in search of things that no one else was selling, things that ranged anywhere from useless but endearing knickknacks to priceless artifacts from fallen human civilizations—at least, that was what he said. Golbahar had never been given a reason to doubt him, though she maintained a healthy skepticism that amused him.

“Sometimes an explanation kills the magic of an item,” he had said to her once, when she’d asked about an old figurine carved from jade, and she had crossed her arms stubbornly.

“If an explanation can ruin magic, then there was truly no magic to begin with,” she had replied.

If he was there, she wanted to catch him before he left again. Doubtless it would be soon, and she wanted to hear the new tales he had about the vast world beyond Daevabad, or she would have to wait for him to return again, which wasn’t necessarily a bad thing, only inconvenient. She was always eager for stories from outside the city, about distant, foreign lands and humans with their incredible feats of innovation and engineering, and she could always count on Lubayd to deliver.

But as she maneuvered her way through the crowd, she felt another prickle of unease, against the back of her neck this time. As a member of the ruling family, Golbahar was used to having eyes on her. She had long since learned to recognize what it was like to be watched, by her guards, by her family, by her people—and in her unapproved, unsupervised outings, she had learned to recognize what it felt like when a pair of eyes lingered a little too long, a little too intensely.

Her heart quickened, briefly, but she forced it back into its normal rhythm, glancing discreetly around her, making a show of looking at the goods in the stalls she passed. She would not lose her head here. She had been doing this long enough to know how to take care of herself in tricky situations, and should things truly come to a head, Jamshid was still near.

She continued on in the direction of Lubayd’s stall, keeping her brisk, determined stride between inspections. Though the crowd was thinning, there were still spots where it was congested, and she tried not to hurry towards it, but it was nonetheless a relief to slip between the jostling djinn, to regain a shred of her anonymity amongst the many heads bustling past one another.

Resisting the urge to glance behind her, she used the shuffling crowd to slip into an empty alley, fumbling with the small dagger Jamshid had given her, strapped beneath her tunic. Though she had never had need for it before, he had insisted that if she keep escaping her guard and going out into the city alone—accusations she had halfheartedly denied before he gave her a look that told her he knew better and to just take the damn knife—she had best have at least some idea how to defend herself that could be of help beyond the more advanced Nahid methods of snapping bones or bursting important blood vessels. 

She waited with bated breath, pressed tight against the wall, so that her stalker might not see her at first, knife clenched between her fingers. Counting the heads that passed without a second glance in her direction kept her alert and gave her something to focus on that kept her heart rate steady. As the seconds—minutes? Hours?— wore on, she thought that perhaps she had evaded them after all, and her aching fingers began to relax on the hilt of the small blade.

But then a shadow turned into the alleyway, and she tensed again, waiting for the silhouette to draw a bit nearer. Hardly breathing, she held fast until they were close enough, and then she lunged out of the shadows, pressing the knife against the interloper’s throat, and they froze.

“I don’t know what you want,” she said, trying to stay the tremble in her voice, “but I do know you’ve got the wrong…” she trailed off as the light trickling in from the Bazaar illuminated the face before her, handsome and vaguely familiar in the sense that she had only seen it once, and from a distance. His black eyes were wide in surprise.

She drew in a breath, her grip going slack around the hilt of the dagger, though she did not lower it from his throat.

“ _ You. _ ” 


	5. Chapter 5

In truth, Golbahar had no plan beyond the threat of the knife. She was a healer, and despite knowing that her aunts and uncles and cousins among the Council used their powers to deal with traitors and murderers and the like, the thought of  _ taking _ life instead of mending it made her stomach turn. 

She only hoped the boy would not call her bluff. 

But instead of backing away or searching her expression for the nerves she knew were not entirely concealed, the ones that would give her away immediately, he kept his eyes respectfully lowered.

“Banu Nahida,” he said, his voice soft, his tone placating. “I apologize for scaring you. I mean you no harm.” She did not lower her arm though, nor did she speak, taking the moment to assess him in full. The long hair tied with leather at his nape, the sturdy build of a warrior. There was an ease with which he held himself, a self-assuredness that was not quite tempered by the inward slope of his shoulders. She had seen no such slouching on the training grounds, and she suspected he was trying to make himself smaller, for her sake.

The thought sent an irrational little surge of anger through her. She was the one with the upper hand here. Did he not think she stood a chance by her own merits?

“If I may,” he started when she didn’t respond, “you are holding it wrong. The knife. I could show you the correct way.”

Though he was polite and he addressed her with respect, though the offer was cordial enough, Golbahar gaped at him anyways, at the audacity and the arrogance of this boy who had stalked her through the streets of her own city and then had the gall to offer his unsolicited advice. 

“However I am holding it, the sharp end is still pressed against your throat and I am the one controlling whether or not it will split your jugular,” she said, more bite to her words than perhaps necessary, though the ache from keeping her muscles so tense for so long in wait told her that it was, in fact, very warranted. “Why were you following me?”

“On orders, Banu Nahida. I was instructed to ensure your safe passage back to the palace.”

“By tailing me like a common thief?”

“Discretion was advised,” he said, never raising his eyes to hers, though she heard something that might have been sheepish in his voice, “but it appears stealth is more your strong suit than mine.”

The concession had her lowering the knife, just a fraction. Her arm was beginning to tremble, and she would much rather play at diplomacy than break the illusion of her own strength. And though the admission gave her a warm little flutter of pride, something about his words did not sit well with her. Her brows furrowed, and she tilted her head at him. He seemed honest enough, but the orders were strange. They had told her directly that she was getting assigned an Afshin, so it was odd to her that instead of waiting to introduce them properly, they had sent him after her like a true shadow. 

Or a spy. 

Her stomach sank at the realization, at the confirmation that her worries had not been for naught. Her aunt suspected. She must.

But still… Why tell her at all, then? 

The more she tried to puzzle it out, the less sense it made, though perhaps that in and of itself was the answer. Her aunt always had been something of an enigma. For all Golbahar prided herself on being able to read others, she had never been very successful in reading Banu Manizheh e-Nahid. There was the unease that sometimes burrowed itself under her skin when she suspected half-truths from her, or the tightness in her stomach when her sincerity felt off, but that was the extent of it. 

Perhaps she knew. Perhaps she did not. Either way, Golbahar was now burdened with the Afshin boy, and she would have to be more careful. She did not know just what he would report back to her guardian. 

She sighed, dropping the knife, trying not to feel too disappointed that she would not be visiting Lubayd tonight, after all. He lowered his hands finally, taking a step back from her. 

“Introduce yourself properly, then,” she said, folding her arms over her chest. “If I am not to be trusted alone anymore, at the very least my assigned company should not be that of a stranger.” 

“My name is Darayavahoush e-Afshin, Banu Nahida,” he said, dropping to his knees and prostrating himself before her, an act that was entirely unnecessary for a Nahid who had not yet reached their quarter-century, and though they were concealed in the shadows, she felt her panic spike. She rushed him, grabbing his shoulders and pushing him up. 

Alarmed, he looked up at her, meeting her eyes for the first time since this encounter had begun. He looked stunned by the touch, doubly so by the sight of her, but she had little time for his concerns. 

“You don’t have to—get up,” she hissed, casting a furtive look out onto the street, hoping no one had taken notice. He scrambled back to his feet at her command, dropping his eyes back to the ground like a man scorched, clasping his hands firmly behind his back. 

Heart pounding, she checked once more to make sure no one had caught sight of him in his condemning position. Only when she was satisfied that they had gone unnoticed did she relax, turning back to him. 

“—apologize if I did something to offend you,” he was saying, his posture rigid, but Golbahar waved him off.

“You don’t have to look so stricken,” she interrupted him. “You did nothing wrong.” She considered apologizing for her own behavior—behavior that might have struck him as sudden and unreasonable—but thought that would make her seem even stranger than she already did. Nahids did not apologize, for they did not make mistakes. That was what her aunt had told her.

But she had always thought that a little ridiculous, because of course they did. And she had startled him for simply paying respects the way he had been taught to, if it had been a little over-exaggerated for someone of her station. 

“I’m sorry,” she said, after a time. She thought she saw him flinch in the shadows. 

“You do not have to—”

“I am aware I do not have to do anything, Afshin.” She gazed at him, trying to find the right words to appeal to him. In other circumstances, she might have found his respectfulness and his adherence to their rules and customs admirable. As it was, his deference was a hindrance, but she could at least be courteous. “I am Golbahar.”

“I know.” 

His response was too quick, and he seemed to know it by the grimace she could just make out along the contours of his face. Her lips quirked up a little, unbidden. He had not meant to say it. For all his confidence, all the skill he might have possessed, all his eagerness to perform well, he was not yet a full-fledged Afshin, tempered by experience. 

“I did not mean to alarm you,” she said after another long moment. “It is only that I do not wish to be recognized, and your…position…might have given me away.” 

“Is that why you… I mean… your veil,” he finished lamely, gesturing in the vague direction of her uncovered head. Truly, if not for the roles they had found themselves in, she might have found his awkwardness endearing. 

“It is easy to hide in plain sight when most people only learn to recognize you otherwise concealed. I am safer this way.” He seemed to consider this, then nodded. She let out a breath. If he could see her reasoning, perhaps she might maintain her anonymity, even at the expense of her privacy. Though he had his orders from those above both of them, she was still his Nahid. 

Maybe, just maybe, she might be able to strike a balance between the two of them that wouldn’t hinder her too terribly. Considering him again, she took a chance. 

“Discretion was advised for you to use against me, Afshin,” she began, and he started again, as if she had struck him with the accusation, “but I ask that you use it  _ with  _ me, as well. Unveiled, no one but a select few know I am a Nahid. I will not be targeted as much as if you made clear our roles.” 

“You are… you are asking that I… do  _ not  _ treat you as your station deserves, Banu Nahida?” He was clearly struggling with the idea, but Golbahar held fast. 

“Only in public, as we are now. Otherwise you may prostrate yourself and ‘ _ Banu Nahida’ _ me as you please.” She let the suggestion fester for a moment before she continued. “Your orders are to keep me safe on my...excursions, yes? There is no better way to keep a Nahid safe than for no one to know there is a Nahid amongst them. From what I hear, you are a prodigy, Afshin. You must see the strategic merit in this plan.”

“I… Yes, I see it. I only—”

“Fantastic!” she exclaimed, clapping her hands together before he could protest. “Then you agree, yes? My safety is of the utmost importance,” she finished, more solemnly. She had caught him off guard, she could tell, could see the traces of befuddlement in the furrow of his downturned brow.

“Yes, of course—your safety is my priority.”

“Then we are on the same page. No more bowing in public, or referring to me by my official title. Are we agreed?” He hesitated, though it lacked some of the baffled uncertainty of his previous stallings, as if he was thinking now, trying to piece together what she was proposing. But it did not last long.

“...Agreed,” he said, after only a moment’s pause.

She had known they could not prepare him for her. She had a gift for talking people into things before they could think better of it, before they could take the full weight of her words into consideration, and no one had warned this poor Afshin boy. 

Pity for him.

“Excellent. Let’s go find my cousin.” 

She brushed past him, stopping right before she reached the street, the bustle of people thinning out now as daeva began to retire into their homes for the night. 

“Oh, and Afshin?”

“Yes, Ban—Yes?”

She glanced over her shoulder at him, her smile sharp. 

“It might be easier to keep watch of me if you would look upon me, though far be it from me to further instruct you on how to do your job.” 

She turned back around to slide into the throng, but not before she caught her third glimpse of his eyes, depthless in their color and surprise both.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please excuse the half a year gap, I had to rewrite the beginning of this chapter no less than 8 times because writing their first meeting was DAUNTING and it just wasn't coming out how I wanted it. I told y'all this would be slow going but I would stick with it!

**Author's Note:**

> I have nursed this AU for over a year now, and I pray that you all will be patient with me when it comes to updates and the likes. It is going to be massive, and I want to see it through to the end, but I am exceptionally slow. Just know I have plans for this, and I would like for y'all to trust me, and enjoy the ride. <3


End file.
